


and although I know it's a long road back

by wraith816



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Christmas, Community: spn_j2_xmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraith816/pseuds/wraith816
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five days 'til Christmas and they've got somewhere to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and although I know it's a long road back

**Author's Note:**

> spn_j2_xmas 2010 gift for neros_violin, who asked for Sam/Dean Christmas, in the style of horror and hunting or in the style of schmoop; I kind of tried to average the two, and this is what came out. Thanks to switch842 for the look-over. Title from _I'll Be Home for Christmas_.

December 20th and they're in Pennsylvania, not far from the dark, hulking ruins of Pittsburgh. To be this close to a city, it's dangerous these days, with all the nasty things that crawl up from the cracks – the Hell-things and the Purgatory-things and all those in between – congregating where people once thrived. But they're on a timetable and the roads are easier to pass here, when they aren't blocked by bodies to salt and burn. It's a necessary risk.

Dean hums Zeppelin off-key like he's not worried, but Sam knows better. It's in the grip of his hands on the wheel, how he can't keep his eyes steadily on the road, lets them dart to the outskirts of the city when he thinks Sam won't notice. But Sam _does_ see, because he's doing the same thing, scanning the sides of the highway for any sign of something coming their way. Together they've sent more things screaming back to Hell than any people alive, but armies have stormed places like Pittsburgh with nothing to show for it but streaks of blood.

Two guys, no matter how good, don't stand a chance.

"We gonna be out of here by nightfall?" Sam asks.

"If nothing gets in the way before then. 'Course, that's a pretty big _if_."

"We've made good time so far."

Dean scowls. "Don't jinx it."

"I'm just thinking, seems a little easier than usual this time."

"You call this easy?"

"Easi _er_ ," Sam corrects. "It's been days since something came specifically for us." Because that is the true danger: the things they stopped and those they killed, returned and renewed and looking for an especially painful kind of payback. Add to that the things Dad killed, and the ones Mom killed, and the Campbells going back who knows how far...there are a lot of monsters with reasons to hate the Winchesters.

"Could just be dumb luck," Dean says.

"Or could be someone's keeping them off our backs."

"You think Cas sent somebody again?"

Sam shrugs. "An early Christmas present?"

"Woulda been more useful if he just came down and zapped us there," Dean says.

"We've still got time. We'll make it."

Neither of them sighs with relief when they've passed by the city unchallenged, but it's a near thing. Instead, Sam just reaches out, brushes his hand against the back of his brother's neck, lets his fingers linger for a moment. It's an affirmation, one Sam finds himself needing more and more after little victories like these. Dean used to roll his eyes at Sam, used to crack jokes, but years have taught him the feel of Sam's hands on him, have made it something familiar and wanted. Sam withdraws, though, because there's only so much Dean will put up with, and he knows his brother's limits well. Still, Sam'll take what he can.

An hour later, in that last bit of light near the end of dusk, they pull over by a burnt-out McDonald's to switch places, Sam in the driver's seat now. They don't dare waste the night.

* * * * *

  
December 21st, they go through Indiana.

Mid-afternoon, they find signs of life continued, even now. A roadblock: cars parked so as to leave just a narrow path through and half a dozen men on guard, all of them with guns and identical distrustful looks. Somewhere in the distance, smoke rises, not sinister, just one necessity of civilization these days. A town can't be far up the road.

Sam pulls the car over just feet in front of the blockage, and he and Dean get out, weapons left behind, hands up and empty. They hold still as the group approaches, checks them – silver knives and holy water. One man nods when they don't flinch and says, "Passing through or looking to stay?"

"Just on our way through. We're headed west," Sam answers.

"Came from Massachusetts last week," Dean says.

"You've been out east?" The guy whistles low, impressed. "We've heard things..."

"It's not that bad, if you know where you're going." Dean smiles like it was that easy, like they don't fight tooth and nail each time they cross the country. That's their act, the lie they let people like this believe, just in case. _We can take on anything; don't even think about fucking with us._

The man steps back, whispers to the others for a long moment, then says, "You're welcome to stay with us for the holiday, if you like."

Sam shakes his head. "We've got somewhere to be." And even if they didn't, towns like this hold nothing good for them. The people look to take what they can – weapons, supplies, knowledge, labor – and none of it with much care for where it comes from. Or worse, demands for demonstrations of a faith he and Dean can't even pretend to respect. This time of the year, people like this, their frenzied devotion is at its peak and they will hear of nothing but all the ways they think God has punished the world; Sam's seen it countless places now, back since even before his final, awful yes.

The lead man nods. "All right then. You can go through, but with an escort. Don't even think 'bout driving off anywhere they don't lead you, otherwise they'll have to shoot."

"Of course. Won't be a problem," Sam says, grabs Dean's arm and leads him to the car before he can say something to get them in trouble.

The minute the car door closes, Dean rolls his eyes. "So much for peace on Earth and good will towards men."

"Hey, they didn't even try to search the car. It's better than the last few we've run into."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's just get out of here before they change their minds and get trigger happy."

A truck pulls away from the roadblock, and Sam starts the car to follow.

Just once, barely half an hour out from that little town, they pass a sign for Cicero. Neither of them mentions it, or the months they spent on that fruitless search when Purgatory first broke open. They don't talk about how Dean eyes each town like it might be the answer even now, after years. They've always been good at leaving things unsaid.

* * * * *

  
Three days to Christmas and they're delayed by a cemetery overrun with ghouls.

"You wanna take them?" Dean asks.

"Can't just leave 'em loose," Sam says. "Let's do it."

They enter the graveyard with guns drawn, and they're not there a minute before the first ghoul raises its head from its grim feast. The thing howls, low and angry, and the others take notice; the whole horde turns to stare. Dean raises his gun, lets the first bullet fly and hit its mark right between the nearest ghoul's eyes. And then there is the rush of doing what they've always been meant to do – the aim and fire and aim again, the practiced way they move in unison. It's that welcome flash of adrenaline that's sustained them through this hard-fought trip over ground broken open. It's their well-placed shots and near misses and that relief – release – that comes when the last of the things falls.

They stand back to back at the end, with heavy breaths in the newly-won stillness. Dean turns to him then, with that look he gets more and more often, something heavy and lust-laced that makes Sam wonder why he's ever doubted what's here between them.

It's a mutual move forward, a meeting in the middle. They kiss, fueled with energy and victory and the firm knowledge that there is nothing left in this wasteland but each other. Sam wants to touch, to take his brother and make him fall apart again and again until the world crashes down around them. It wasn't this easy, once, to reach out, to need this. But years and miles of this nightmare landscape have softened the edges of this, made it something warm and broken in, something nearly as natural as breathing.

They break for a moment, and Sam says, "Not here," though he wishes he could just let it happen. But it's not safe in the open, not with the way this thing between them breaks down all their defenses.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Okay." He pulls back, steps over the ghouls' bodies on the way back to the car.

They find a half-collapsed motel not far from the graveyard and park behind it, out of view. Dean picks the lock to one of the rooms on the end that still looks stable, its walls undamaged unlike most of the others. The room smells stale, but there's no sign of anything that might've taken up residence, and so they drop their bags and set to work – Dean blocks the door with the dresser and useless TV, turns the second bed on its side to cover the window; Sam lays out salt, thin lines that can't put much of a dent in their precious supply.

When they're done, Sam wants to chase that moment they had back in the cemetery – safety's never guaranteed, and opportunities have been few lately – but he sees then how tired Dean is, the darkness around his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders. There's a day of rough roads and ghouls behind them, and a week of similar days before that, and they aren't quite so young anymore. So instead, Sam says, "I'll take first watch," and Dean doesn't argue, for once, just mutters thanks and drops heavily onto the bed, fully dressed. He's asleep in moments. Sam takes a chair, sets his shotgun on the table, still in easy reach, and waits.

It's harder in these quiet hours, when there's nothing to listen to but that nagging hum at the back of his head. It's harder to remember all those warnings of the past few years, the horrible things he might let loose if he keeps listening to that unrelenting buzz. So he concentrates on the low rhythm of Dean's breaths instead, does his best to ignore what's there, just under the surface of his own mind. This, too, is routine now.

They switch up a few hours later, Dean taking his place beside the gun while Sam sleeps. They leave at first light, driving out and on, always, always onward.

* * * * *

  
On the 23rd, the gas gauge sinks into the red when they're miles away from anything. No gas stations to raid, no abandoned cars from which to siphon, and Dean curses every detour and back-road they've had to take this far.

"I've got it covered," Sam says. "Pull over here."

Dean does as he's told, and Sam gets out to open the trunk, digging out the box he'd shoved near the back. A poor hiding place, but Dean's somehow left it miraculously undisturbed. "Was hoping we could get through without this, but here." Sam takes a battered red can out of the box and hands it to Dean. "Part of your Christmas present."

Dean takes the can, looks at it like it's something precious. Gasoline, more valuable than gold, now. "Where'd you get this?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. "Around. Everywhere. Had everybody saving it up any place they could get a few drops. There's more waiting for us when we get there."

Dean smiles, and Sam knows what it means to him – more miles, more time before the car must be left behind to rust. More of them and the road and the hunt, like it's always been.

"Might as well give you yours, then," Dean says. He rifles through the trunk and pulls out a small paper bag, tossing it to Sam. Dean's got that grin on, the one where he's fighting to make it look genuine, like he hasn't got some scheme ready to spring.

Sam opens the bag warily, shakes out a large red rubber clown nose into his palm. "Haha, very funny, asshole." He shakes his head and throws the damned thing at Dean's head, laughs because they can still joke like this, even when things have changed so far through all this time.

"I'm hilarious," Dean says as he picks up the nose from the ground and tosses it back in the trunk. "Don't worry, your real present's at Bobby's. Now c'mon, let's get the car filled up. We're burning daylight just standing around here."

* * * * *

  
They roll into Sioux Falls in the last few minutes of Christmas Eve.

Jodie's at the fence, grinning as she unlocks it for them, lets the great metal gate swing open. "It's good to see you boys again,” she says when Dean puts the window down. “We almost thought you wouldn't make it in time."

"And miss dinner?" Dean scoffs. "Never."

She laughs. "Shoulda known that's all you show up for. If food's what you want, we've got plenty; had a good harvest while you were gone. But Bobby's been waiting up for you at the house, if you think your stomach can wait."

"Eh, I _guess_ it can. We'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm off duty at six."

"Awesome. Thanks."

Dean pulls the car through the gate and takes them down the familiar street to Bobby's house. The little town that the survivors have built up around it is quiet, fires dark and sidewalks empty save for the usual few sentries who wave as they go by. The house is the one place still alight, with candles flickering somewhere inside and a tree in one of the windows - not decorated, no ornaments or strings of lights, but it's there nonetheless. Dean parks amongst the junked cars and they grab their bags before heading inside.

The door flies open when they're just steps away, and then Bobby's there to grip them in tight hugs, each in their turn, and it seems to Sam that he looks older each time they come back, more lines and rough edges than there should be, even now.

"You had much trouble on the way here?" Bobby asks.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Dean says. "Glad to be back, though."

"Well, get your asses inside."

Bobby leads them through the house and into the kitchen. Rufus is at the table, looking the same as he ever does, like he's a moment away from pulling a gun and vaguely annoyed at nothing at all. He nods in greeting, says, "Sam. Dean. Welcome back. Sit down and have yourselves a drink." He's got a jug of something homemade, vile, and probably incredibly alcoholic, and he doles it out liberally into mismatched glasses.

They take seats side by side, and somewhere in the house, a clock chimes midnight. Dean raises his drink, looks to Sam with a smile, an expression that promises _later_ , and says, "Merry Christmas."


End file.
